Alpha Privilege
by Ebyru
Summary: Scott tries to trick Stiles into sleeping with him. It goes surprisingly well.


**A/N**: Un-betad and spoilers for season 3.  
I hope you enjoy their development. :)

mostly fluff and slash.

* * *

"Why am I the only one here?" asks Stiles, craning his neck to peer around Scott's empty bedroom.

"Um-" Scott slides a hand through his hair.

"I thought you said this was a new Alpha thing?" interrupts Stiles, raising a brow. He crosses his arms, leaning against Scott's windowsill.

Scott nods, his throat jumping as he swallows. "Well, Allison-"

"-Already slept with you, I know. But what about Lydia?" he asks Scott, "is she not part of the pack too?"

Scott opens his mouth, but Stiles goes on before he can explain.

"Or Isaac? Is he still in Derek's pack? But Derek left without him-" Stiles trails off thoughtfully.

"There _was_ this one night," admits Scott, rubbing at his nape nervously. He can't meet Stiles's detective stare because Stiles can see through him without needing werewolf abilities.

Stiles stalks towards Scott with a gaze hard enough to make him reconsider his life choices. "You went for Lydia and didn't tell me?" he says in a biting tone.

"No! I meant Isaac," explains Scott, resting a hand on Stiles's shoulder. "I didn't do anything with Lydia after that one kiss. I promise."

Stiles looks wary for a second, then nods. "Okay, so what's going on here? Does she not want to share you?"

"It's more like…" Scott sighs, trying to make it sound the least ridiculous possible. But becoming an Alpha has put his moods and taste – not that way, okay – in people in sharp relief. "I didn't want to have to focus on anyone but you."

Stiles's eyes bulge, and he begins to nod spastically. He looks around the room, moving back and settling on the bed. He stands when he can't make his knees stop shaking. "Oh. Oh, okay." He keeps nodding, but he isn't making eye contact anymore. "So eventually, you'll, with Lydia-"

"_No_," Scott tells him. He stands in front of Stiles, squeezing his arm to calm him. "I kind of…lied."

Stiles sits back on the bed. "I knew you two must have done something," he's saying under his breath.

Scott notices that he doesn't sound angry exactly. Disappointed, yes, but not angry. He smells off – "I meant I lied about this being a normal ritual for new Alphas."

And Stiles is back to gaping, flailing his arms, twisting them in his shirt, nodding like he gets it. When in reality, he doesn't have the slightest clue what's happening because the only knowledgeable werewolves have skipped town. He finally breaks. "What _is_ this?" he says, louder than he means.

"It's us," Scott says, cupping Stiles's face and moving in for a kiss faster than a panic attack can take hold of Stiles.

Luckily, Stiles is willing to go along with any action right now that can keep him from freaking out, especially with someone whom he trusts and loves. _Loves_. That's a topic he's going to have to review later because right now the taste of Scott's mouth is devastatingly right. Stiles fists in Scott's shirt, drags him on top of him, deepening the kiss with a swelling mouth and slicked lips. He's moaning like this was his idea, and Scott is all for it.

They get tangled in Scott's bedspread after rolling on it a few times, trying to decide who's going to be on top. Scott lets Stiles win in the end because his arm is trapped within the threads of his blanket, and if he pulls he'll rip it. Also, Stiles kind of deserves it for putting up with this. And if that isn't enough reason, the fact that Stiles – unaware that it was all a lie – was willing to give his boy-ginity to Scott because he's in his pack (not even a wolf himself) is pretty damn loyal.

Actually, that might be exactly why he's on his back, belly up to a human, showing his neck. Stiles laughs, shaking his head because he must know what this submission means. But instead of sinking his teeth in, leaving his claim and a beautiful, temporary red mark, he kisses and kisses, and slicks up Scott's neck with it. The bulge in his pants grows either way, but this is far worse when it comes to sexual torture.

Stiles knows what he needs, what it is they're doing. Or so he hopes. He never thought he'd have to explain this; Stiles is usually the smartest guy in the room.

"You know you're supposed to-" Bite me; make me whimper with it. I submit and you're supposed to take it.

"I know," says Stiles, placing another row of sloppy kisses down Scott's throat. He pushes Scott's t-shirt as high as he can with the blanket-trapped-hand getting in the way of everything.

"But-" _I'm the Alpha now, and this is a privilege you're getting. Take advantage of it._

If he says any of that, Stiles will leave him high and dry, and probably never touch him again. Watching him, Stiles stays silent, but his eyes tell Scott he doesn't care about werewolf rules. Each kiss feels like a steaming mist against Scott's skin: hotter than anything he's ever wanted, and just the right amount of pain in it to make him wish it would end.

Scott gives up when Stiles bites his own lip, waiting for a protest. He knows what he's doing and he's enjoying it. Scott might as well get in on the fun, too.

"There you go," says Stiles when Scott closes his eyes, trying to calm his breathing. "Now just relax, Alpha."

It sends the desired thrill shooting up Scott's spine at ninety miles an hour; he's harder than plywood by the time Stiles's mouth leaves that patch of skin underneath his throat and digs in to each nipple with his undivided attention. Somewhere, in the part of his mind that still cares about dignity and his humanity, he hears himself whimpering, howling as Stiles digs his fingers in his sides and bites into his stomach.

The marks aren't where Scott expected, but they're there.

Stiles is breathing hard, gnawing on Scott's toned abdomen. His mouth drags plush and wet lower down; he shoves at Scott's shorts and boxers to get to more skin. Obedient to his favourite human – and it's odd that species keeps coming up now that his rank has changed – Scott keeps his eyes closed while Stiles breathes him in.

"I never thought-" Stiles swallows with a click. It nearly makes Scott look. Stiles is panting, warm air hitting the very tip of Scott's erection. "God, I really want this in my mouth."

"Yeah," says Scott, delirious with the image Stiles must make. He uses his free hand to comb through the longer hair, tug at it a little to get him right where he needs. Distantly, he remembers this was supposed to be about claiming Stiles and maybe knotting him, but right now that feels like something that can wait. "Please, Stiles."

"Just keep your eyes close, Scotty," says Stiles in a whisper.

The suction gets Scott arching. The wet slip of Stiles's pink lips and tongue has his toes curling. The heat is another level of hell that Scott's falling in, because Stiles sucks cock like it's an interview he really wants the job for. There's a joke in there somewhere, but Scott is fading into the mesmerizing repetition of lips, tongue, suck, lips, tongue, suck. And the sounds Stiles makes when he pulls off? Absolutely pornographic.

Hands trail up his stomach, scraping at his chest and down his ribs. But Stiles never detaches his mouth; keeps him cozy in that opening that vibrates with sounds and moaning. Stiles keeps moaning, growling like a feral dog. He's also leaking a steady stream of pre-come. Scott could probably smell it from another country.

Pulling off with a pop, Stiles mouths at his balls, tracing them with his tongue. "How close are you?"

Scott thinks he nods, which is probably the wrong answer. His fingers tighten in Stiles hair, and he's careful that his claws are still safely withdrawn. He rubs at Stiles's scalp in what he hopes is soothing motions while Stiles tries to swallow him down entirely.

It's a blessing that his arm got stuck, truly.

Stiles pulls off again, panting. "How close?" he asks.

Scott's voice feels like it's chalk on a board, cracking even though he hasn't said a word in a while. He clears his throat. "Very," he squeaks as Stiles's mouth slides back down his length.

Mouthing along the veins on each side, Stiles hums, his tongue serpent-like in its movements. He traces the head with it. "Good," he says, "I want to taste it."

It's just –

Stiles was his first friend. His only friend for years. The one who was there for the divorce, the one who he practically carried home when his mom died. His innocent, little virgin friend with big, brown doe eyes that make his insides turn into muffins. With his super slick mind that processes and saves Scott's ass on a daily basis…

And he's just –

So fuckin' _perfect_.

How could Scott not come?

The warning is weak; a barely there whimper of 'coming' that he's surprised Stiles even hears. His mouth latches on the head, sucking and sucking, drawing every last taste he can from Scott. Then Stiles groans, a wild sound that makes Scott's eyes snap open just in time to see Stiles come in his unopened jeans.

He buries his face somewhere near Scott's thigh, lapping up remnants. His hands balled up on each side of Scott's body. "We are definitely doing that again."

"Oh, yeah," agrees Scott, stroking Stiles's hair. He stares at the ceiling, tasting the mess in Stiles's jeans without seeing it. "I'm glad you didn't freak out."

Stiles laughs, climbing over Scott and collapsing next to him. "I'm glad I didn't either." Scott turns to kiss Stiles, but he dips his head and hides in Scott's neck. "I don't kiss on the first date."

It's so ridiculous that Scott can't argue with it. "Fine," he says, smiling. "Tomorrow night."

"Mm-hm," says Stiles, snuffling Scott's shoulder.

Scott would offer to strip Stiles out of his sticky clothing, but that would just make him wild for whatever else he can get. Besides, stiles still hasn't helped him get out from his tangled blanket.

"Stiles?" asks Scott in a hushed tone.

A leg is thrown across his crotch in response. Why did he think dating Stiles would make their relationship easier?


End file.
